


1/6th

by paradoxikay



Category: Pokemon GO
Genre: (the good kind!), Anal Sex, And The World Will Turn To Ash (Pokemon Fan Comic), Autistic Blanche, Crying, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, Nonbinary Blanche, Other, Spanking, background Candela/Blanche/Spark, i feel like that might... clarify some of their thought processes in this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 05:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9585620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradoxikay/pseuds/paradoxikay
Summary: Their mind is constantly working, always analyzing, quantifying, even when there is no benefit to doing so, and when they just want to relax it is frustrating beyond even their ability to describe that they will always find something to fixate on.Blanche could use a distraction. Spark is happy to provide one.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Characterization mostly comes from [surfacage](http://surfacage.net/ash)'s fantastic And The World Will Turn To Ash comic. With some liberties taken, because ~~I wasn't going to write a spanking fic without using the word "ass", sorry Blanche~~ I take so long to write anything that I would never be able to finish this fic if I tried to keep it strictly compliant with current Ash canon... 
> 
> Title from [1/6-out of the gravity-](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JJYyeFoiYH4) by Vocaliod-P feat. Hatsune Miku. Have fun figuring out the connection!
> 
> Content note: there's like five seconds of breathplay - if that's something you want to avoid completely, you should avoid this fic.
> 
> Thank you [Emmalyn](http://undynedevotion.tumblr.com/) for beta reading for me! ❤️️

Someone's car alarm has been going off for approximately two and a half minutes, and Blanche fiercely,  _ desperately _ wishes they were not aware of this.

 

Most people would consider exceptional observational skills a plus, and it's true that these often serve Blanche well. But they cannot turn them off when they're not wanted. Their mind is constantly working, always analyzing, quantifying, even when there is no benefit to doing so, and when they just want to  _ relax _ , it is frustrating beyond even their ability to describe that they will always find something to fixate on.

 

"Hey, Earth to Blanche!"

 

By the time they are consciously aware of the interruption, they've figured out who it is, and that he poses no threat. But their body responds before their brain quite catches up, and when they turn it is with muscles tensed as though to fight, or flee. The box of tea bags in their hands has suddenly grown a thin layer of frost, and inside their head an immense source of power stirs, wary - more than willing to put on a bigger show, if necessary. Never mind that it's only Spark, and intimidation tactics wouldn't be of much use even if he did have malicious intent.

 

Clearly thinking along the same lines, Spark just rolls his eyes at Articuno's theatrics. "I was gonna ask if you wanted a punching bag tonight," he says, as though nothing is at all out of the ordinary, and that alone melts some of the stress from Blanche's shoulders. Spark doesn't take much of anything personally, and it's a relief not to have their unconscious response - or Articuno's very deliberate one - taken as an insult. "But you look like maybe you'd rather be mine..."

 

He isn't wrong, on either count; Spark can be surprisingly insightful when he can be bothered to think before acting. Something to focus on that isn't every tiny annoyance in their surroundings would be more than welcome, and they're hardly in any place to take responsibility for another's wellbeing when they're not doing so well at ensuring their own.

 

Articuno is not so easily convinced of this. Blanche supposes it can't be blamed for being as on edge as they are; the understanding of human psychology needed to understand why someone might be hypervigilant even in the absence of any threat is probably beyond even a Legendary Pokémon's grasp. But they manage to get the point across. Articuno reluctantly backs down, and the bond between the two of them returns to a quiet, constant presence in the back of Blanche's mind.

 

"What's got Brainfreeze there so worked up?" Spark asks. Blanche just shrugs, turning away to deal with the tea makings they never quite got around to using. It's not a conversation they particularly want to have. "Anyway, my offer's still open, you know. If you want a distraction -"

 

"I would like that very much."

 

"Well, c'mere, then," and Blanche has crossed the room to Spark's side before making a conscious decision to act.

 

Spark cradles their face in his hands and kisses them, soft and sweet - until it isn't, his teeth suddenly catching their lower lip and biting down hard. They rock  _ into _ the bright jolt of pain, letting it ground them, pull them partially out of their head and into a more complete awareness of their body. And Spark's body, fever-warm and close, one thigh pressing up between their legs with clear intent. "That's it," Spark murmurs in their ear. "I've got you." He nudges his thigh a little higher, Blanche's answering moan swallowed by another kiss. But just as Blanche begins to grind against him in earnest, he draws back, grabs their hand, and tugs them gently towards his bedroom.

 

If he catches the little noise he gets in return, a tiny disappointed whine Blanche is immediately embarrassed by, he is gracious enough not to comment.

 

"You know the drill, pet," Spark says, once they have reached his room and the door is safely shut behind them, and under his watchful eye Blanche begins to undress.

 

There is a certain ritual to it, at least under these circumstances. Blanche moves slowly, each article of clothing carefully folded and set aside before they start on the next; not to put off what is to come, but to ensure that by the time they have finished they are in the proper frame of mind to appreciate it. It's time they need to collect their thoughts and put them aside for later... and if they are well aware that Spark appreciates the show, well, that's just a bonus.

 

It isn't enough time, today. They are still excruciatingly aware of a million things that do not deserve their attention. (That car alarm is still going off. How can Spark remain so unaffected by it?) They drop to their knees regardless - they might not be in the right mood for this, but that does nothing to lessen their  _ want _ for it.

 

"Feel like being good for me today?" Spark crouches down beside them, drags his gloved knuckles back and forth across the Titan's mark looped around their arm. It's fascinating, the sensation of his touch fading into a faint awareness of pressure as he moves from unblemished skin to insensate scar tissue. That he is very deliberately doing this to distract Blanche, and that they are fully aware of this, doesn't stop it from  _ working _ . "I guess you save all your real acting up for Candela, yeah? You're gonna make her jealous..."

 

He nudges gently at their jaw in a gesture so familiar that lifting their head for him is almost instinctual. Spark laughs, warm and fond, in their ear as he gives Blanche their reward: well-loved leather encircling their neck, and then a band of crushing pressure against their throat as he pulls the collar suffocatingly tight. Just for a moment - just long enough to restrict a single breath - but they are no less acutely aware of the collar's presence when he gives it enough slack to fasten comfortably.

 

They jump when he tugs the elastic from their ponytail, startled by the sudden cascade of hair against their bare skin.

 

"Aw, did I startle you? Sorry!" Spark doesn't sound even remotely sorry, but Blanche loses track of what he's not-apologizing for when he hooks a finger through the D-ring on their collar and pulls them in for another kiss. One with less teeth, this time, but he doesn't need to bite to steal another breath from them.

 

"Tell me what you need from me." He still has them by the collar, their faces so close that his lips brush the corner of Blanche’s mouth as he speaks, and he punctuates the order by nipping at their lower lip. It's a hard question to answer under ideal circumstances; asking while he's making himself the center of their attention hardly seems fair.  _ Fairness _ is not one of Spark's more prominent traits, however, and he seems to lack it entirely as a Dom.

 

That's just an observation, though. They would hardly be on their knees for Spark if they objected.

 

"I need... to be distracted."

 

Spark does not know them as well as Candela does. He will never be able to wreck and then rebuild them as effortlessly as she can. But he understands well enough that sometimes the world grows too loud to bear, and only something louder can draw their attention away, and very few things can muster up the effort to be louder than Spark.

 

"I think I can manage that. But what do we say when we want something, pet?"

 

" _ Please _ , Sir. Please - have your way with me."

 

Being vulgar does not come naturally. They are reasonably sure this is why Spark asks it of them, even when they always sound more awkward than...  _ seductive _ . But he seems satisfied regardless, making a show of pulling one glove off with his teeth so he can stroke their cheek with the backs of his bare fingers, laughing softly when they lean into the touch. "How can I say no when you ask so nicely?" he teases, rewarding Blanche with a gentle kiss on the cheek before pulling away.

 

It only takes Spark a few minutes to prepare things to his satisfaction. The overhead light is turned off in favor of the bedside lamp, some toys are retrieved from the re-purposed shoe rack in the closet, and a faux fur blanket with a waterproof lining is thrown haphazardly over the bed to protect the covers. Blanche keeps their gaze fixed on their knees, but the proceedings are familiar enough for them to follow by sound alone.

 

"C'mere," Spark says, from his seat on the edge of the bed.

 

The striking contrast between the two of them - Spark fully clothed save for his gloves, Blanche wearing nothing but a collar - makes Blanche feel...vulnerable, they suppose, though that feeling is a complicated and often unsettling thing. Vulnerability, after all, was an ever-present theme throughout their childhood, and there are spans of time of which it is their  _ only _ memory, the details locked away beyond their reach. And yet it can be a positive experience to allow Spark to make them feel much the same way -

 

"Hey." Spark's voice cuts through their moment of introspection. "Distracting you is my job right now. Don't get all thinky on me." His smile is the difference between a rebuke and a gentle reminder, one they are grateful to have been given. It isn't just for his own sake that Spark wants them fully present. It's what Blanche wants, too. Perhaps that is the difference - that even when he is talking down to them, or inflicting pain, Spark never gives them anything they are not happy to receive. "Now c'mere."

 

Spark has never made it a rule that Blanche must stay on their knees while the two of them are in a scene. He does not expect them to crawl. But if he is going to want them on their knees again momentarily - and that seems a reasonable assumption, given how he is seated, legs spread with enough room for Blanche between them... it seems appropriate, and efficient, to remain on the floor. 

 

So they crawl to him of their own volition, and relish the way something similar to humiliation takes precedence over the countless other things vying for their attention. Similar, but not quite the same; another feeling that should be, but somehow isn't, negative. They always mean to revisit that thought later, when there are...fewer distractions.

 

They never remember, which they suppose is a testament to Spark and Candela's sexual prowess.

 

"You look so good like that," Spark says as they settle themself between his legs. "On your knees, waiting for me to use you..." He leans down to trace the swell of their lower lip with his thumb. "It's tempting, but I'm not gonna use your pretty little mouth right now - aw, don't look at me like that!" Heat floods Blanche’s face at the realization that they are so obviously disappointed. They try to duck their head and look away, but Spark takes hold of their chin and urges them back up to face him.

 

"Nuh-uh, sweetheart. Eyes up here."

 

Blanche knows that carefully nonthreatening tone of voice, the softness of his touch, and not only from personal experience. This is how Spark treats skittish Pokémon. How he acclimates them to human contact. It would be insulting - if it weren't every bit as effective on skittish  _ humans. _

 

(Or if the line between the three of them and the Pokémon who have claimed them were not so alarmingly indistinct.)

 

"Now get the rest of you up here." He offers them a hand, then slides his grip down to grab their wrist, tugging them towards him and off-balance when they're halfway to their feet. They end up sprawled across Spark’s lap and the bed, and a firm hand on the back of their neck, pinning them down, makes it abundantly clear that he would like Blanche to  _ stay _ there. By no means opposed to the implications of this position, they oblige.

 

"There you go. That's it..." He's using that voice, still, what he says far less important than how he's saying it, and Blanche closes their eyes and tries to relax into what he has implicitly promised them. They have already made the hardest decision of the evening by choosing to submit. There are no more choices to make. They don't need to think. For just a little while, Spark can think, and choose, for himself and Blanche both.

 

Spark's voice has faded into background noise. The hand on Blanche's back slides down their spine, then breaks contact as the other takes hold of their arm. He pulls it behind them, holds their wrist to the small of their back; they willingly offer him their other wrist before he can reach for it. Leather encircles each wrist in turn, the cuffs a matched set with the collar around their neck, and every bit comfortingly familiar. Blanche tugs at the cuffs once they've been securely buckled, reassuring themself that there is no give, that they will not be regaining full use of their hands until Spark allows it.

 

It's a strange sort of blissful inevitability. They are at Spark's mercy, and there is nothing they can do but accept that. Finally, they are able to do something that has proven impossible all day and  _ relax. _

 

For a moment - before Spark makes good on the promise implicit in this position, and brings his hand down against their ass.

 

Not hard, not just yet. It is more of a promise of what's to come than an act in and of itself. The next blow is harder, and almost immediately followed by a matching one on the other side. Then a pause long enough for them to catch the breath he's knocked out of them, just long enough for the initial sharp sting to fade into a tingling warmth.

 

The next strike feels sharper, laid with careful precision directly over the last. Blanche finds themself tugging against the cuffs as though to reach back and deflect the next blow. Spark laughs at their futile efforts, grabbing their wrists by the chain that connects them and pinning them against the small of their back with his free hand before delivering two smacks in quick succession to the underside of one cheek.

 

Blanche grits their teeth through the pain, determined not to cry out - well aware that Spark will only take their silence as a challenge. Sure enough, he quickly falls into a brutal rhythm across their ass and upper thighs, one that leaves them with barely enough time to gasp in desperate breaths before he reignites the fire that seems to spread under their skin. And breathing is just about all they can manage. Spark’s onslaught leaves no room for coherent thought. They are reduced to raw awareness of the sensory overload he is inflicting upon them.

 

Blanche makes a very good attempt at staying silent, but eventually they are pushed past that point, and they would find their gasps and whimpers humiliating were they fully aware of them. Time seems to shift, each pause stretching out into something unbearable - or perhaps he really has slowed down, because they find they have the breath to speak - to  _ beg _ \- and just enough presence of mind to realize what they're saying.

 

"I -" Finding words at all is a struggle, let alone the right words, and Blanche almost resents being pulled out of that perfect, mindless place by the effort. "Please, Sir, more,  _ please _ ..."

The next strike doesn't come. Blanche cannot possibly describe the sound they make as anything other than a disappointed whimper.

 

"So  _ greedy _ ." But Spark's voice is affectionate, transforming what could be an insult into something akin to praise. He releases their wrists, uses both hands to massage their flushed and stinging ass. The touch intensifies the sensations so strongly that Blanche almost feels as though his hands are made of fire. "My arm's getting tired!"

 

"Liar _ , _ " they force out in a shaky, breathless voice. Spark's bond with Zapdos has gifted him with much more stamina than  _ that _ .

 

"Are you sassing me, pet?"

 

Of course they are, and Spark knows full well why. But the retaliation they're braced for doesn't come. Spark's hand lands lightly on their shoulder instead, brushing their hair to one side, then cradles the side of their face not pressed into the bed. "You're crying, Blanche," he says, compassionate but not concerned. Even before the words sink in, his tone reassures them that nothing is wrong. That Blanche can stay right where they are, drunk on sensation and only tangentially aware of their surroundings, with only his voice cutting through the fog. "Still good to keep going?"

 

Now that Spark has drawn their attention back to themself, they notice the prickling discomfort behind their eyes, the way the blanket is damp under their cheek - little, insignificant details that had been utterly drowned out by sensation a hundred times more intense. Details that  _ remain  _ insignificant, they quickly decide. They aren't in more pain than they find pleasurable, they aren't frightened, and they do not wish for Spark to stop. Whatever has brought them to tears is unimportant, and unworthy of their attention.

 

"I can -" Blanche cuts themself off, pressing their face into the blanket more to hide their frustration than to do anything about the tears. The right words escape them, and chasing after them tugs them further out of the blissful headspace they aren't ready to leave just yet. Expressing basic concepts should not be this difficult! "I... I  _ want _ to keep going, Sir. Please -"

 

It is Spark who cuts them off this time, and that is  _ much _ more to their liking.

 

As each new strike lands against already oversensitive skin, Blanche starts to cry in earnest. The sheer  _ relief _ that comes when they stop trying to hold themself back is every bit as powerful, as overwhelming, as the pain, and they allow themself to be swept up in it until they are aware of nothing else. Until their entire world consists of the agony Spark inflicts, and their reaction to it.

 

They do not know how long they spend sobbing into the blanket, only that by the time they finally stop the pain has reached a point just this side of unbearable. Not more than they can - or want to - take, not just yet, but close. Close enough that each blow shocks the breath out of them, leaves them writhing in Spark's lap, struggling helplessly against the cuffs digging into their skin.

 

_ Please _ \- their lips form the word, but they don't have the breath to make a sound.  _ Please, please,  _ **_please_ ** \- and just as the pain reaches a peak, when they're on the very edge of begging for  _ mercy _ instead of  _ more… _

 

He stops, and they are so grateful that Spark somehow  _ knew _ exactly how far to push them that the tears start anew.

 

Even muffled by the blanket, their ragged sobs seem almost deafening in the sudden silence. With nothing to fight against they collapse, still and unresisting, as Spark extricates himself from under their boneless weight and kneels on the bed beside them. "You did really good, sweetheart," he says, so softly that they feel compelled to quiet themself down so they can hear him. "You took that for me so well..."

 

As he talks he starts to rub their back, dragging his hands down from their shoulders to where their bound wrists rest at the base of their spine. The firm pressure is every bit as soothing as his voice, both serving as reassurance that they don't need to be entirely present just yet. As their tears die down and their breathing steadies out, Spark applies more pressure to the perpetually tense muscles in their shoulders and neck, digging deep enough to make pain bloom there, too. A very different kind of pain, but one equally as welcome. The wordless, contented noise Blanche offers in response makes Spark laugh and lean down to kiss the base of their neck right below the collar. "So easy to please," he teases.

 

This quiet intimacy could last an hour, or a handful of minutes; there isn't room in Blanche's pleasant, endorphin-drunk haze for concepts like  _ time _ . There is, however, room to sit up and take notice - figuratively speaking - when Spark stops working the tension out of their back and starts raking his nails down either side of their spine.

 

Blanche has had a background awareness of their arousal, building steadily ever since Spark kissed them in the kitchen, but it very suddenly becomes a much higher priority.

 

"Thought that might get your attention. You didn't think I was done with you yet, did you?"

 

They hadn't been thinking _ ,  _ full stop. But any desire to talk back leaves Blanche when Spark takes his nails to their back again, this time hard enough to leave long scratches that sting even once he's pulled away. They shift their hips against the bed, very, very aware now of just how turned on they are. It would be pathetically easy to come just like this, grinding against the bed, helped only by Spark's nails and maybe his teeth - but they don't want to.

 

This is enough, but they want  _ more _ .

 

"Please -" They've said and thought that word so much it hardly seems like a word at all anymore. "Please, Sir, I - I wa _ nngh _ !"

 

Spark drags a thumb down one of the scratches, and Blanche's train of thought violently derails, taking the rest of that sentence with it. "Didn't catch that, pet," he says, cheerfully, as though the reason for that isn't his fault in the slightest.

 

"I want -"

 

Just half a second to catch their breath, find the right words - but they  _ don't _ want that, not really, and that's why Spark is refusing to give it to them. What they truly want is to be completely and utterly overwhelmed, blind to everything that isn't Spark, and something in their chest  _ aches _ with how grateful they are to be given exactly what they've wished for.

 

"Please fuck me, Sir?" they mumble into the blanket, not quite far enough gone to say it without embarrassment.

 

"Well, if you insist..." He ruffles their hair, in strangely gentle contrast to the pain he was so happily inflicting moments before, and slides off the bed. What he doesn't do is give Blanche their hands back, and from the expectant silence that follows they can only assume they are meant to work around this. They have to bite back a pained noise as they sit up and are very firmly reminded of just how thorough Spark was in spanking them. Not an unpleasant reminder, far from it, but certainly an insistent one.

 

When they've made it to their knees, Spark grabs their hips from behind and pulls, easily manhandling them into the position he wants - kneeling right at the edge of the bed, only Spark's solid presence behind them easing the fear of falling off. They relax against his chest, trusting him to hold them up, keep them steady and safe.

 

"That's right, pet," Spark whispers in their ear. "I've got you." He brings his hands up, tracing a slow path from their hips to their chest. The slightest brush of his fingers against their nipples makes them shudder and keen, so aroused now that every inch of skin seems impossibly sensitive. Candela has threatened before to make Blanche come from nipple play alone, or not at all. Right now such a feat almost seems possible.

 

Time slows to a crawl as Spark teases them with featherlight touches and his mouth against their neck, teeth and nails both scraping against their skin but never quite hard enough to inflict pain. The noises they make, little breathy moans and cut-off pleas, should be embarrassing, but they are past embarrassment.

 

All they are aware of is Spark's touch, and their need for  _ more _ .

 

"Look at you." One hand drifts lower, nails running along Blanche's stomach, the inside of their thigh. "You've been rock hard since I got started on your ass, haven't you? Always a slut for a little pain, aren't you, pet?" Murmured so softly in their ear, the word  _ slut _ sounds loving, fond. "I bet I'd barely even need to touch you to get you off."

 

His fingers close loosely around their cock and they recoil from the touch, as much as they can in the little space between the two of them. Spark isn't wrong; they’re already so worked up that every touch feels a thousand times too intense. It wouldn't take much at all to push them over the edge…but that would be incredibly unsatisfying.

 

"But that's not what you want, is it?" Spark says, with almost eerily perfect timing. "You don't want to come until I've fucked you senseless." He leaves their cock alone, and they can feel him shifting behind them, his belt buckle smacking their ass with enough force to make them whine and arch away from him. " _ More _ senseless, anyway." More movement, noises Blanche can't be bothered to interpret, and then,  _ finally _ , Spark grabs their hips and sinks into them in a single slow, deep thrust.

 

Surely nothing has ever felt as good as this.

 

If his pace is any indication, Spark is no less desperate than Blanche, simply better at hiding it. He fucks into them quick and deep, each thrust easily carrying enough force to push them over were it not for Spark holding them upright. First by their hips, then, suddenly, by their throat, one hand squeezing just tight enough that they cannot ignore its presence. That possessive gesture cuts through the pleasant fog like nothing else has, and shoots straight to the desperate need building low in their belly.

 

"Please -  _ please _ -" The words they need won't come, and fresh tears prickle at their eyes from frustration and overwhelming pleasure both. But Spark, for once, is merciful.

 

"Gonna come for me, pet? Already?" He nips at their ear, the bright spark of skin catching between his teeth yet more fuel on the fire of their arousal. "Go ahead.  _ Come _ ."

 

Their orgasm is so intense they cannot breathe, let alone scream, as though their voice is trapped within their tightly contracting muscles. There is a faint awareness of blissful pain, Spark's teeth digging deep into the meat of their shoulder, but it barely registers as separate from the overwhelming wave of sensation that crashes over them. It drowns them, and they go under willingly.

 

The first thing they regain awareness of is their own voice, a tiny, wrecked " _ thank you _ " pulled from the very last air in their lungs. Then teeth again, another bite just beside the first, and pressure and  _ heat _ as Spark pushes impossibly deep inside them and chases their orgasm with his own.

 

Then - the sensation of falling, as Spark flops gracelessly down on the bed and pulls Blanche down with him.

 

Spark's shoulder makes an acceptable pillow for a minute or two, as Blanche catches their breath and regains command of their senses. When they struggle to sit up, too delightfully worn out to properly compensate for their restraints, he's at their back to support them and unbuckle the cuffs.

 

(The collar, though, he leaves alone. For just a little while longer.)

 

He leaves for a moment and returns with a cup of water, closing his hands around Blanche's to keep them from spilling when their hands start to shake. "How 'bout you stay put for a while," he suggests. "Candy'll kill me if your knees give out on you in the shower again -"

 

"That happened  _ once _ ." Their voice sounds very small, despite the emphasis they try to put into it. They  _ feel _ rather small, and arguing with Spark doesn't actually have that much appeal at the moment. "...and I would like it to stay that way. May I have a towel, though?"

 

Instead of getting them a towel, Spark takes it upon himself to clean them up, from the dried tears on their face to the mess of both their come. Still very much in that compliant, floaty sort of headspace, Blanche finds themself far more inclined to let him fuss than to argue. Crawling across the bed to where Spark has pulled back the covers takes what little energy they have left, and they're glad for the opportunity to curl up around a pillow and let themself drift.

 

They are no less aware of their surroundings than they were to start with. As Spark tidies up, they can hear his footsteps in the other room, the washing machine starting, a Poké Ball releasing its precious contents as kibble clatters into a bowl. It is simply much, much easier to let those noises wash over them, accepting them without becoming distracted by them. They become pleasant background murmur, a makeshift lullaby as Blanche, utterly sated, drifts off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always very welcome! You can also find me on Tumblr at [aneroticporkcutletbowl](http://aneroticporkcutletbowl.tumblr.com).


End file.
